


falling from my faith today

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Background Character Death, Coping, Friendship, Gen, Gen Work, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: it's just another war, just another family tornIn retrospect, trying to run into a burning building to save a family Geralt assures him is already dead might not be the best idea, but Jaskier can't stop himself from throwing himself at the flames regardless.ie Jask witnesses his first (non-monster) death while on the Path with Geralt. He doesn't handle it well.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 163





	falling from my faith today

He knows there’s something wrong by the way Geralt behaves. Subtle, but on the scent of something– fire, he declares, and Jaskier knows Geralt can probably smell the smoke long before he has any chance, but he doesn’t _see_ the dark cloud curling into the air until they’re nearly back to town from their hunt. It’s even _in_ the town, the fire, Jaskier realizes with a start, the one they’ve been staying in for the better part of two weeks now. A small, quaint place full of harmless rumors and several promises of coin for what Geralt calls menial tasks: drowners, nekkers, although they had had a basilisk today. Not to mention a free stay at the inn. There was some good in the world.

So Jaskier gets a little nervous when they get close. He starts wondering what’s burning and what had happened while they’d been gone.

When he recognizes it’s the house at the end of the furthest side street, the one with the elderly lady tending her two young grandchildren, Glenna, Miranda, and Tess were their names, his heart sinks to his knees. He takes off running.

“Jaskier–”

He ignores Geralt, and shrugs off his bag and lute to move faster, because he has never understood _why,_ in the face of _crisis,_ all anybody could do was stand in a crowd and _watch._ He guesses it’s the times, public lynchings and the rallying cries all around for them. And he’s no better, really. He’d stumbled upon a witch burning, just once, and he’d stared like the rest of them. He hadn’t done anything. He hadn’t slept for a week afterwards, but he hadn’t _done_ anything. So then maybe he does understand.

But things are different now, with him. He wants to think they are, anyway. He wants to believe he’s got _courage_ now, the useful kind. So he drops his things and pushes through the crowd, demanding answers as he goes.

“Where are they?? Did anyone _see_ them come out?”

A few passerby, mute in horror, shake their heads at him. “Last we ‘eard, theys was still inside!”

_“Shit.”_ He curses under his breath and keeps moving, sizing up the state of the building. The doorway’s unobstructed, for now, but the blaze burns hot and high. Maybe if he’s fast enough– 

He’s barely ten steps towards the door before a hand catches the back of his tunic and wrenches him back. _“Jaskier.”_

“Let _go!”_ He pulls against Geralt, which is futile by nature and Jaskier knows it, but he can’t just _stand_ here and _watch,_ like all the other times and all the other people. “Let go, we have to– we have to get to them–”

“No.”

“Yes!” He squirms more violently, even manages to pull away for a half step before Geralt grabs in his wrist in a way that twinges and forcefully yanks him back. _“Geralt!”_

“They’re already _dead,_ Jaskier.”

That stops him, more than anything else. Shock factor, he guesses. Yes, he’s staring up at this burning building like everyone else is, but he can’t fathom– if they just _tried–_ gods, he’d just spoken to Glenna before their hunt this morning– “You don’t _know_ that…”

“Yes. I _do.”_

And Jaskier knows that Geralt knows, probably. Because Geralt can hear things and see things and smell things they can’t, but if he lets himself stop to think Geralt can’t hear their heartbeats or can smell burning flesh, Jaskier thinks he’s going to lose it, so it’s pure desperation that keeps pumping through his veins instead of acknowledging that Geralt is probably right.

“No… no, they _can’t_ be… I just _talked_ to her. And they’re just _kids…”_ Both things which mean nothing, especially now, Jaskier knows. But even still… desperation…

Geralt’s hand loosens on his wrist _just_ enough for Jaskier to make his break, and he bolts towards the doorway before he can even stop to think about how _stupid_ it is.

This time, he makes it a five whole steps before he’s caught around the middle and the world goes sideways; he yelps when Geralt all but hefts him over his shoulder and then Jask puts his whole attention into struggling to get free. _“Geralt!_ Put me _down!”_

“No.”

“Put me down!”

“No!” Geralt snaps, and it comes out the most… Jask doesn’t know, _expressive_ as anything Geralt’s said since they’ve come back to town, but he’s barely listening.

“Put me–”

“So you can throw yourself into a burning building, don’t be _stupid._ I’m not being a pawn to your _suicide mission.”_

“It’s not–!”

“It _is!”_

He doesn’t want to listen, but something about Geralt’s tone doing that _thing_ is still giving him pause. Geralt getting worked up about anything always has the peculiar effect of utterly deflating him– yes, he’s been the subject of his ire before, so he knows firsthand, too– and… and he knows he’s right. Because here’s Geralt of Rivia, defender of the defenseless; _he’s_ the hero, Jaskier’s not. And if Geralt wasn’t the one throwing himself into a burning building to save kids, then… then the only reason Geralt wouldn’t was because it was already too late.

… fuck, the tears well in his eyes and bile burns at the back of his throat. He drags his eyes away from the flames and struggles for a different reason. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“Geralt–” he rasps, weak and nauseous. He’s ready to aim a kick for his rib cage if he doesn’t put him down, but something his voice must… come off different, now. Geralt slows, a little, and then stops altogether to deposit him back on his feet.

It’s just as well. Jaskier makes it three feet to the curb before he throws up, and has to brace his hand on an unlit brazier to keep himself standing. Eventually that’s not enough, either, when his adrenaline well and truly wears off and his legs won’t support him any longer, and he all but collapses to his knees and starts sobbing, right there on the street corner. What a sight he must be. He decides he doesn’t care much.

He’s not stupid. He knows terrible things happen– it’s war time, for gods’ sake, he _knows–_ it’s just… different, up close.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there… long enough to hurt, though, when his legs go to pins and needles and his body hurts from retching and crying. He doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t know if he ever wants to get up. Because tonight is going to be hell, he thinks. More nightmares to have about fire and death.

But he does haul himself to his feet, painfully, shakily, and is surprised to find that Geralt… hasn’t left. He’s moved on a bit, sitting against the wall with all of their things while meticulously sorting through the small bag of runestones they’ve been collecting. Giving him privacy, Jaskier guesses, and he’s oddly touched.

… gods, but Geralt faces this every day of his life. Humans, monsters, the risk of his own peril. And he doesn’t even blink. So now Jask feels a little idiotic again. He just… he kind of wishes he could be more like him. 

_No, you don’t,_ something says in his head, and it sounds just like Geralt, because he _knows–_ without a doubt– that would be what Geralt would say. And Jaskier almost smiles, over that. Almost.

He wipes his eyes one more time, and goes to join him. “You didn’t have to stay,” he greets, a little horrified when his voice comes out so hideous, but it’s too late to be humiliated now. “I _can_ find my way back to the inn, you know…”

“I know.” Geralt looks up only long enough to hand him three stones. “Hold these.”

Jask looks down at the runes, and tries to decipher what they are. One buzzes with the same kind of intensity of Geralt’s Signs in battle. Another feels ice cold to the touch. The last glows crimson red. He doesn’t know what any of them mean except a trip to the blacksmith for an upgrade to Geralt’s weapons.

“Sign intensity, freezing, and base strength,” Geralt explains, and stows the rest of them away. “The new silver should be able to handle all three.”

“Oh.” They’re avoiding the subject and Jaskier’s glad, but he doesn’t really know what to say. He isn’t even sure he’s up for talking. “Good. That should help,” he says, and stoops to pick up his stuff once Geralt’s taken the runestones back. “You going there tonight?”

“Tomorrow, probably.”

“Oh.” He… definitely thinks he’d rather just go to the tavern and get a drink right now, more than anything else. “Right. Well, I’m… I’m going to get a drink,” he admits, because what’s the use pretending he’s fine right now? “Or three.”

“Drop our stuff off, first.”

He blinks. “Are you… going, too?”

“Drinks sound good.” Geralt says it offhand, flat as ever. It’s still the closest they’re going to get to delving into _his_ emotional state. Because maybe he doesn’t let himself bat at eye at this anymore, but gods… Jask knows he still _cares._ All those stories about witchers were wrong. Geralt, at least, _feels_ things, and he knows it. “If you can stand the morose company,” Geralt continues, maybe even an attempt at a mood-lightening joke.

For what it’s worth, Jaskier does laugh. “If you can stand _my_ morose company,” he mutters, and then, because he feels like he doesn’t have to say it but _should_ nonetheless, he apologizes. “Sorry, Geralt… for… earlier,” he says pathetically. “I don’t know… I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted–”

“I know,” Geralt interrupts gently.

His lip wobbles, and Jask has to bite into it to stop from crying again, godsdammit. “Right,” he manages, and now he _really_ needs the drinks. “Let’s take our stuff back,” he agrees, and follows Geralt back to the inn.

  
  


He sleeps well only because he drinks well, which is a bad habit but honestly a relief. His head is pounding in the morning, and Geralt’s already gone off to the blacksmith by the time he drags himself out of bed. Still, he’s awake in time to catch the traveling merchant doing his daily rounds, and he wonders if he looks more like shit than he thinks, from the pitying look the merchant gives him, or if he thinks Jaskier _lives_ here, and is mourning with the rest of the town. 

He is, though. 

Either way, the trader is especially patient as Jaskier sorts through his things, and he’s just settled back in in front of the fire when Geralt shows up in their room again.

“Thought you’d be asleep a lot longer.”

He shrugs, cutting a chunk of honeycomb to spread on his toast. “I wasn’t _that_ drunk.” He offers it to Geralt instead, who just gives a little hum and takes it. “And I wanted to catch the merchant, anyway.” He gets to work on another piece of toast. “Go to the smith?”

“Yeah.”

“All good?”

“Yeah. Anything from the trader? Besides honeycomb.”

“I _miss_ honeycomb.”

“Yeah. Pain in the arse to get naturally unless you’re an apiarist.”

“So you saying you can’t just do your mind sign and calm the bees?”

“About as much as you could play your lute and charm them.”

Jaskier laughs, albeit if it’s a hollow imitation. The headache’s still there. He’s still tired. He’s more drained than when they’d been kidnapped by Filavandrel’s gang. Then again, no one had died then. He’s trying not to dwell on it. It’s proving… difficult.

He takes a bite of his honeyed toast, and lets the sweetness seep onto his tastebuds. “It’s easier this way,” he replies, and Geralt huffs his own amused scoff, and agrees.

They’re on their way soon after– Geralt suggests over a glass of milk and a pint of ale that they shouldn’t linger, now– and Jask is eager to go. He’s running away, he knows. He’s _liked_ this town. But he wants to go. He wants to run, and Geralt gives him the opportunity in saying they need to seek new, proper contracts elsewhere. Jaskier takes it, and packs up his things quickly. He doesn’t care if it’s true. He just wants to go.

There’s still one more thing to do, though.

He doesn’t know the woman that had come into town late last night, but he’d _heard_ her. Screaming… wailing. He hadn’t been able to make out the words, but he’d heard her crying even down the street. (He’d started drinking in earnest, then.) So, someone related to the family in the fire, someone who had known them. Someone who grieved for them.

When they pass by the home– its skeleton, the remnants, still smoldering gently– Jaskier comes to a stop. “Give me a minute.”

Geralt grunts, but doesn’t protest.

He fumbles for the coin pouch tucked at the top of his bag, and steps forward. The woman standing there looks at him like he’s crazy. Maybe he is. But her eyes are red-rimmed and her face swollen, and Jask offers a tentative, tiny smile. “Hi. I, uh… I…” He fumbles for the words he doesn’t have, because there’s none that can fix this. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he settles on, and it’s lacklustre and textbook and unfulfilling. He pushes forward. “I’m not– there’s nothing– I know it doesn’t _help,_ precisely, but if you need– for whatever you need it for, I thought you could use–”

He barely raises the pouch before she interrupts. “I don’t want your _coin.”_

Jaskier stills, and then plasters the smile on more. “Just in case you need the help–”

“I don’t need your _help,”_ she snaps, advancing on him. He takes a step back. Behind him, he hears Geralt step forward. “Where was your _help_ last night?” the woman demands. “Where were you when they _needed_ you?!”

“I…” _tried,_ he doesn’t say. _I wanted to try._ That will help even less than the coin.

“Bugger off with your _help,”_ she spits. “It’s worth fuck-all for the dead.”

_I know._ He knows. Nothing can make it right, or better. But it doesn’t stop him, not in the moment. He takes another step back, and rests the coin pouch on the flat of the fence post. “Just in case,” he repeats, and turns around. He doesn’t linger to see if the woman takes the coin. In the end, it’s up to her… and how she uses it, if she does. It’s out of his hands now.

He pretends that Geralt isn’t inspecting him when he falls back into step next to him, but it isn’t so easy. The stare turns into _conversation,_ of all things, when Geralt’s the one who breaks the silence.

“Was that my coin?”

Jask scoffs, and it’s almost a laugh despite himself. It’s not funny. None of this is, but gotta get by. He’s got to get by. “Like I’m able to steal your coin without you knowing.”

“You’ve stolen my coin before.”

“I didn’t _steal_ it. I’ve just borrowed it before. Right in front of you. For drinks.”

“And never paid me back.”

“That’s besides the point,” Jaskier protests, and then shrugs. “No, it was my coin, Geralt. I sold some things this morning.” Geralt raises his eyebrows, and Jask fails at not getting self-conscious again. For a good cause, it’s for a good _cause,_ even if that woman doesn’t appreciate it right offhand. She’s just grieving, and… and Geralt probably thinks he’s being stupid. “Don’t look at me that way, Geralt. They’re just _things,_ I can replace them.”

“With what coin, considering you’ve given it away.”

“I’ll just stop by the bank when I’m near Oxenfurt again.”

“Take out a loan?”

_“No,”_ he replies impatiently. “I’ve got money, I’m– you know I do. It’s not going to bankrupt me, and even if it did, it’s worth it.” He’s not being stupid, and besides, Geralt’s done much the same before himself.

“Didn’t say it wasn’t.” Geralt holds out his hand for the saddlebags, which Jask passes over. “But you can’t help people who don’t want to be helped.”

Also true. _Very_ true… and he’s starting to learn it firsthand, on even more intense levels, these days. But… “I think she does,” he says quietly. “She’s just… in shock. _I’m_ in shock, and I barely knew them. So I just… I think she’ll want the help. When she has time to think about it.”

“Or she uses it for drink,” Geralt points out– pessimist.

But Jask still can’t help but smile, because that’s just _Geralt_ for you. And it’s funny, because Geralt’s actually having a conversation with him about it, when Geralt doesn’t talk at _all._ So he’s… letting him work it out in his own way. Jaskier appreciates that. “If she does, she does. People in glass houses, Geralt. We’re all in glass houses.” He hopes that that woman doesn’t, but if she does? He hopes she finds some relief, of whatever kind.

Geralt nudges him. “Bleeding heart.”

“Oh, like you didn’t give all your coin to the elves the first day we met, either, huh.” Jask shoves him back, which has just about as much effect as flicking him with a pebble, but Geralt smirks, anyway. “We both have bleeding hearts, and you know it. Gotta do what’s right. Even if no one else does.”

“Mmm.” Geralt might not say much, but Jask _knows_ he’d do the same. And he reaches down a hand to help Jaskier up onto Roach instead of letting him scramble up on his own, so who’s the soft one here?

Both of them, without a doubt.

“Ready?”

He holds onto Geralt’s belt, and nods earnestly. “Very.”

Geralt urges Roach into a walk, and Jaskier doesn’t let himself look back as they go.

**Author's Note:**

> you know they're going to see a lot of shit out there, but that first time? that first time Jask witnesses something of this magnitude and can't stop it? because yeah war is on their doorstep and he's already seen things but he hasn't seen THIS, hasn't been close enough to feel the heat on his skin, hasn't been strong enough to rush forward and help only to find he's still not strong enough in the first place. and meanwhile, Geralt's seen it time and again, over and over, but he'll be damned if he lets someone else (Jaskier) risk their life on a futile rescue mission (even though he wants to rush in and try to save them himself, too - but he knows better, he's seen it all before, and he Knows)
> 
> and then clumsy coping mechanisms :> but tentatively hopeful nonetheless
> 
> title/lyrics from Skillet's Hero!


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